Last week the news wires were burning when the President of the United States threw out the first pitch at the All-Star Game in St. Louis. That part probably wouldn't have garnered too much attention. Presidents have been throwing out pitches since before we had All-Star games or news wires, for that matter.

What got everybody jawboning was the fact that Obama showed up at the game wearing a pair of baggy jeans that made his butt look dumpy. Someone dubbed them "Mom Jeans" and it became a free-for-all of ridicule.

Like most U.S. citizens my age, I grew up wearing jeans. I started out in jeans my mom bought me, ones with elastic in the waistband and iron-on patches over the knees. The patches were designed to keep the knees from wearing out, but were made from some indestructible, plastic material that tore the skin off the kid inside. The elastic waist was designed to make me look like a dork and get me beat up.

As a teenager, and until I hit my mid-20s, I wore jeans that were so tight I had to take a deep breath and hop up and down to get my wallet out. Everyone else wore the same type of jeans, though, so it was OK. When we stood at the ticket counter at the movies, we looked like a bunch of rabbits hopping up and down to get our money.

As I became a husband and father, I slowly gave up tight jeans in favor of "loose fit" or "relaxed fit" styles. My wife complained that I was starting to look like an old man, but I explained that I was still interested keeping up activities, like eating and sitting down, things I couldn't do with jeans that cut off blood flow below my belly button. She kept bugging me, though, asking every once in a while if I wanted to go walk laps at the mall for exercise or maybe take up bocce.

Last year, my wife was shopping at a local vintage clothing store and found a pair of jeans she thought would look good on me. (All right, fine. I'm just calling it a "vintage" store to save face. She was shopping in a thrift store, where they sell clothes other people thought were too gross to keep. I think it's embarrassing but she likes to shop there. Happy now?)

She found a pair of designer-label jeans that looked like they cost a lot of money when new, but were now just a couple of bucks, and she convinced me to try them on. (Fine, I was there, too. Get over it.)

I tried them on, and darned if they didn't fit ... perfectly. They were tighter than the ones I usually wore, but not so much that my feet would turn black and fall off from lack of circulation. I bought them and wore them. And wore them.

Every time I had them on, my wife would smile and nod appreciatively, and contrary to popular opinion, I'm no dummy. I wore them so much that they started to wear out themselves.

Seeking to extend my winning streak as long as possible, I looked at the label, determined that these were the only jeans I was ever going to buy. Once you find something that works, I thought, don't mess with it. All I could find was a label that read "Saturday Jeans."

I went on the Internet and Googled the name. When the search came back I stared at the screen for a long, long moment, at first not sure what to make of it.

The first site I came across described the jeans as follows: "The Ralph Lauren women's Saturday jean is a classic 'boyfriend' cut in an exceptionally soft denim. Comfortable and worn in, it's perfect for all your weekend adventures."

When I finished getting the chills, I took the jeans out to the trash can out back. My weekend adventures were over.

So, listen, Mr. President, I wouldn't take all the ribbing about "mom jeans" too seriously. You wear what makes you feel comfortable, and worn in. But just to be on the safe side, when you get back to the White House, check the label inside. If it says "Saturday Jeans" have the Secret Service dispose of them properly.